


The Empress

by samchandler1986



Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-05-21
Packaged: 2018-11-03 09:19:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10964289
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samchandler1986/pseuds/samchandler1986
Summary: The Racknanchai, it transpired, were depressingly open to acts of banal evil; passing an increasingly malign series of edicts with passive compliance. Frankly, she was beginning to question whether her rulership even represented much of a break from the previous five-hundred Emperings, and that was no fun at all.[An episode tag to Extremis]





	The Empress

The Seventh Grand Empress of the Racknanchai, Her Most Holy Golden Lightness and Imperial Majesty lounged on her throne. Finding a comfortable position on the cold metal was surprisingly difficult, despite the overall opulence of the Palace.

“Honestly,” she said aloud to the cloistered space, “was it _really_ so difficult to design something with the barest consideration for basic anatomy?”

There was no answer forthcoming from her guards, stoic and still as stones, watching the shadows for the next potential usurper. At the current rate, it was looking likely she would have to set the next rebellion in motion personally. Not that she wanted to be overthrown, of course. But it was just so _boring_ , reigning over a thousand pliant client worlds. To really get one’s teeth into tyrannical dictatorship, one needs someone to actually _oppress_.

The Racknanchai, it transpired, were depressingly open to acts of banal evil; passing an increasingly malign series of edicts with passive compliance. Frankly, she was beginning to question whether her rulership even represented much of a break from the previous five-hundred Emperings, and that was no fun at all.

The sound of running feet drew her from her reverie. “What’s that?”

This time one of her walking slabs of genetically engineered muscle grunted into life. “An intruder, my Majesty. They will not succeed in penetrating the first layer of defences.”

“So confident,” she said. “I do _like_ that in a bodyguard.”

 _Slap, slap, slap_ ; shoe leather on stone. Then a loud splash. The guard made another grunting noise, this time of satisfaction. “Food for the Mandrachan,” he said, content.  

The Empress drummed her fingers impatiently on the arm of the throne. “I might go and watch,” she said. Perhaps seeing someone torn limb from limb by the crocodilian guardians of the outer Palace would snap her out of this malaise—

The clanking of ancient chains made her still. “They got past the Mandrachan, then?”

A second guard shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. There’s still the Gallery of Poison Arrows.”

The Empress strained her ears. Faintly audible was the _hiss-pop_ of ancient pneumatics, firing a volley of poison arrows after the running feet. The footsteps abruptly stopped.

“Ah,” she said, almost sad. A curious metallic sound rang like a gong, a sword clashing against metal. “Ah?”

The guards exchanged glances, nervous for the first time now. “Been a while since anyone got as far as the Silver Knight,” ventured the first.

 _Crash, crash, bang!_ The sounds of complicated destruction, noticeably closer than before.

“No one _ever_ gets past the Rolling Wheel of Death,” managed the second guard, over the immense rumbling of stone on stone.

The Seventh Grand Empress of the Racknanchai, until recently known by rather less pretentious soubriquet of Missy, smiled in the dark. It was a shark’s smile, all dark eyes and shining teeth, but a smile nonetheless.

“Well,” she said, as the doors of the throne room trembled, “this _is_ more interesting.”

The doors of the room were thrown back. The figure in the doorway, hooded and robed, silhouetted in a haze of smoke. Water dripped onto the marbled floor from the soaking cloak. Missy’s smile widened. There’s only one idiot in the universe that would care for such a theatrical entrance.

“Why Doctor,” she said, palms open in welcome. “So good of you to join us. I trust your journey wasn’t too… unpleasant?”

The figure strode forward, into the light. “He’s a little busy,” she said, pulling down the great hood and shaking out her hair. “Afraid you’ve got me instead.” She raised her pistol; Missy barely registered the _tic-tic_ of tranquiliser darts, paralysing the useless bodyguards.

“ _Clara Oswald_ ,” she said. “He sent you in his stead?”

“Nope,” replied the former companion lightly. “He has no idea I’m here. He’s retired. Domestic bliss on Darillium. And it will stay that way, thank you.”  

“Why would I—?” Missy managed, before the third dart struck her in the neck and the Universe went dark for a time.

* * *

She woke in a cell; a comfortable one with a soft bed and a desk for writing at, but a cell nonetheless. The thin window revealed a view out across a lake, the smell of pine on the breeze. She tapped a finger against the glass and was rewarded with an electric shock sizeable enough to kill a lesser species.

“Ouch,” she said, and sucked her burnt finger. There were low voices, just audible, conferring behind the thick door.

Eventually it opened. Clara again, flanked by two guards wielding teardrop-topped staff weapons. Missy felt her lip curl instinctively. “You know where you are?” Clara asked.

Missy blinked. “The Fatality Index,” she returned. “Bunch of meddling do-gooders, doling out death and judgement for cowards too weak to deal in retribution personally. No offence.”

The guards remained impassive. “The Shadow Proclamation ordered you bought here,” replied Clara.

“Yes, my point exactly.” Never one to resist twisting an available knife she added: “Is this what you do now, then, lackey for them?”

“On occasion.” Annoyingly unrattled. “You can leave us,” added Clara.

“Just us girls, is it?” Missy tried, ghosting over to the writing bureau. “You think if I’m here he might pop by and—?”

“If by _he_ you mean the Doctor, he will be coming. That’s the way of it, with the Fatality Index. Your own kind wield the axe. Or flip the switch, or bury the stake. Whatever they decide is necessary to kill a Time Lord. But not just yet.”

“Yes, you did mention… retirement.” To anyone else, Clara’s face would have been impassive. Not for Missy, expert in reading the tiny tells of distress. “Not heard that one before. Must be a tale to tell there.” She moved in a blur, the letter opener from the bureau in hand, suddenly pressed against Clara’s neck. “Why don’t you… _spill_?”

“You really are _thick_ , aren’t you?” Clara returned, supremely unperturbed. “D’you think I’d have left that in here if you could hurt me?”

Missy let go, stepping back and looking properly at her captor for the first time. Eyes narrowed, like a cat’s. “What did he _do_ to you?”

“He tried to save me. A long time ago, now. But you know that anyway, don’t you? All part of your plan to bring the hybrid to Gallifrey?”

Missy’s mouth dropped open. “He went _home_?” Words unspoken hung in the air nonetheless. _Without me?_

“Eventually. You really didn’t know?”

“I thought that… you and he… You should have brought down the Universe! I could see it in the wheel of time. In all the ripples and eddies you made together in that great flow. The… _chaos_.” Her eyelids fluttered, for a moment she could almost _taste_ the collapse, the beauty of order unspooling into madness.

“The Time Lords turned the confession dial into a torture chamber. A torture chamber _you_ gave him. He beat it. Tried to save me. Lost his memories instead and moved on.”

“Ah.” She indicated her confines. “So, is this my just desserts? A prison of my own?”

Clara almost laughed. “This? This is _nothing_ compared to what you deserve. The blood of millions is on your hands.”

“And his,” she shot back. “Yet _I’m_ the one in the cell—”

 “You killed Danny Pink. You disintegrated two people in front of me, just to make a point. You tried to get the Doctor to kill _me_.”

“So it’s _personal_ then?” Missy grinned. “Delicious.”

“I’ve been happy to kill you for a very, very long time,” Clara returned, still superficially calm, though her hands balled into fists.  

“And yet you can’t. That _must_ be frustrating.”

“Mmm.” Clara’s hands uncurled, and for the first-time Missy felt a trill of fear. “Not the way I’d describe it.”

“He won’t kill me,” she said, trying a different tack. “You know that, don’t you?”

Clara smiled. “I don’t. And neither do you.”

“He could have killed me on Skaro—”

“More important things on his mind.”

“On Earth he—”

“On Earth he pulled a trigger. He might have known you’d survive it anyway, might not. The point is – _we_ don’t know. Neither of us. And you’re stuck here until the Doctor is done on Darillium, wondering if he’ll do the same thing again. Could be he’ll come tomorrow. Could be a century from now. I guess you’ll have to find out.”  

“I see.” Missy sat down on the comfortable mattress, colder now. “He wouldn’t do this, you know. If you’re out there being the Doctor for him while he dallies on Darallium… ‘Never cruel or cowardly,’ you know that’s his way. This is both.”

Clara shrugged. “I try and live by his code, it’s true. But you know, just like the Doctor, _sometimes I’m not very good at it._ Goodbye Missy.”

“You know, I’ve always preferred _au revoir_.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Clara, closing the door.


End file.
